


Don't leave me here alone

by Waywardwiz



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Marvel Infinity War, Spoiler for Infinity War, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, infinity war - Fandom
Genre: F/F, F/M, Hurt and comfort, M/M, Rated E for later chapters, also sad, major spoiler to Infinity War, somewhat gory, when I write "unlikely alliances" I mean both the platonic and the sexy kind
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 08:13:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14468568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waywardwiz/pseuds/Waywardwiz
Summary: This little thing takes place right after the battle in Wakanda against Thanos' forces. The Avengers are shattered and Wakanda is in ruins.We follow what's left of our band of survivers over the next few weeks, and see them form unlikely alliances. The fic is rated E for some saucy stuff in later chapters, but the first one is more of a character study (because I enjoy those). Also, in my house we ship Steve/Tony."All there is are broken hearts and splintered souls, sapling love reaching out with desperately searching fingertips and flinching, recoiling, when it brushes against nothing but dull, vast despair"





	1. Cry

Some moments in life are so devastating that they defy rational analysis. We yearn for the neat and congruent answers in the midst of our crisis, but deep down we know that they won’t satisfy. They never could, because now, in a situation such as this one, there is no sense to be made, no hope to be found, no comfort to be given. All there is are broken hearts and splintered souls, sapling love reaching out with desperately searching fingertips and flinching, recoiling, when it brushes against nothing but dull, vast despair, of the agony that comes from having a part of you ripped out that you didn’t know was essential for you to keep on going, existing, _breathing_. How are you supposed to react? There is no manual.  Cry? Sure, you can cry. But even so, there are many different ways to go about it, to pour out your grief and cling to the fragile hope that the pain will turn to salt and leave you alone.

Thor cries, on his knees, hands balled into trembling fists against the ground, shoulders heaving in big, tragic sobs. His tears seep into the earth and maybe, some day, a tree will grow from the soil that he has nourished with his sorrow, so that something good might come of this. He thought he had lost enough, that he didn’t have anything left in him to tear himself apart over. But he thinks of Loki, of his mother, his father, Heimdall, Loki again, and here he is, racked with an aching hurt that makes him wonder what the real difference between gods and humans are. His suffering feels very human. It’s not fair that he has to feel this much.

James cries, because he has never been taught not to. He doesn’t associate crying with weakness. Rather he sees it as a human function, a sort of catharsis. He weeps softly, lips parted around sobs, and allows himself to be vulnerable. Pain demands to be felt, and no matter how much it hurts, he will feel it, because he trusts that it will help him. He knows not to shy away from it.

Okoye doesn’t cry. She has seen many deaths, experienced it from far away and up close, so she is always prepared for it. She knows how to power through, because people count on her to protect them, _Wakanda_ needs her to be brave, and so she cannot falter. Her mind is already spinning, making plans. She deals in solutions. She is a guard and so guard is what she will do. She will defend the defenseless; take care of those who cannot care for themselves. But her king, one of her closest friends, is dead, and so she promises herself that she can grieve later, when everything else is taken care of. She might even cry, if she remembers how. It’s been a while.

Natasha doesn’t cry, but she feels it. She feels so much. Her anguish is a quiet, tender little thing. She is strong, Natasha, so strong and so kind, but how can you be kind to another person when you can’t be kind to yourself? Natasha’s world is a steady, terribly bitter echo of “what if.” and “I could have been better/faster/bolder.” and “fault, it’s my fault.”, and she could never hope to forgive herself. She should, she deserves it, but compassion is out of reach, and is slipping further away by the second as she looks around at her team mates through a detached haze, as she tries and fails to understand. Understand how life can be snuffed away at the snap of a cruel god’s fingers.

Bruce cries, because he is in terrible, terrible pain, and he doesn’t know how else to deal. He is an open man, a soft man, who has been bruised plenty throughout his life. He wants to believe that all the hardship he has experienced has made him a good person, and good people are allowed to cry when bad things happen to them, and to those that they care about. Simple as that. It’s not enough, but it will have to do.

M’Baku cries. He got to see friends and family members disappear into nothing, their eyes wide and afraid, their mouths burst open in silent screams. He moans their names into his hands; whimpers and prays and begs, because he believes in a life after death, and if his beloved have to go where he cannot follow, he will at least send them off proper, help ease their souls into the Promised Land. It is a land where no pain exists, where there is only smiles and songs and laughter and where faceless horrors are but a fleeting thought. It grants him comfort where there otherwise would be none.

Steve doesn’t cry. He feels nothing, or he feels too much. His chest is full of an ugly, twisting mess born of anger and defeat, of hopelessness and resentment. Yet it is also empty, a hollow space where every futile attempt at piercing the broken puzzle of the crumbling world together is but an echo that rattles against the inside of his ribcage. He wants to close his eyes. He doesn’t. He wants to speak, because he is supposed to be their leader, their _captain_. He doesn’t. He just sits and stares at the naked patch of dirt at his feet. There is a slight indent in the mud, carved there by Bucky’s heavy metal arm moments before... Before. Steve thinks of Bucky, and then of T’Challa and Vision and Wanda, of Sam and of Tony. Tony, who he never got to tell that he was sorry. That he _is_ sorry, so, so sorry, that they had to end up like this. That they didn’t get to look each other in the eye and ask for - and give, that’s the important part - forgiveness. He doesn’t exactly know whether Tony is dead or not, but his thoughts go to him, anyway. They often do. Steve isn’t sure what “I love you.” means, but he thinks that it means something along the line of “please don’t leave me here alone.”. Thanos is done with his genocide-project. Does that mean that they, that those who are still alive, are safe? God, he hopes that wherever Tony is, he is safe.

Time stands still in their little pocket of heartache between the trees, until it doesn’t anymore. The world still spins; the Wakandan summer air smells sweet, tinted at the edges with iron and rust and salt, and the sun is high in the sky. A soft breeze carries with it the sounds of broken conversation, of frantic screaming, of so much distress. It’s the sounds of people who need them.  
Okoye raises her eyes. For the briefest of moments there is a glassy quality to them, but then she shakes her head and snaps out of it, her gaze once again sharp and fiercely determined.  
“We have to help.” she says, voice shaking only a little, as she steps forward authoritatively and wraps her long, slender fingers around the crook of Steve’s elbow. She gently, but insistently, pulls him up into a standing position. He sways a little on the spot.  
“Rogers – “  
“Call me Steve.” Steve says, face blank.  
“Steve.” Okoye repeats indulgently. A dark shadow, a haunted look, slips across her expression as she starts counting their grizzly tasks on her fingers, “the people – my people – need our help. We have to get the wounded to the sickbay and the dead to the morgue, see if we can identify them. Call of the evacuation when we have cleaned up –“  
Her lips tightens, “we burn the monsters.”

Steve nods, still looking a bit dazed, but largely present. He straightens his back. He watches his team members, gaze shifting back and forth between their tired faces, and says, “Come on.”. The four of them stands on somewhat shaky legs, eyes rooted to him. They are waiting for him to tell them what to do, to give them a sense of purpose, to let them channel their sorrow into something beneficial. He is proud of them, his little gang of survivors, and later he will tell them so. Right now they need to assist Okoye in aiding the soldiers and removing the deadly eyesore that is marring the beautiful landscape.  
Nat is the first one to talk, looking at Okoye as she does so, “We’re ready.”.  
Tonight they can rest, or tomorrow, depends on how long it takes, but for now, they will do their job. That’s how they will survive.


	2. Steve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is Steve's. We are at the morning after the fight in Wakanda.  
> Steve gets an unexpected visitor and things get heavy.
> 
> "He wants to look at his reflection and see less harsh lines etched deep into his forehead, less surrender in his eyes, less of that “was that it, what was it all for?”-grimness dragging at the ends of his lips. He wants to look at his friends and say “we’ll be fine. We’ll figure it out. We’ll make a plan, and we’ll be alright.”, and he wants to really mean it. He wants to convince them, but more importantly, he wants to convince himself."

Steve sometimes wishes that he could go back to who he used to be. An idealistic kid from Brooklyn, a sweet, young thing who was always ready to believe the best in people. Whose faith in humanity was admirable, if a little naive. The thing is, he knew that others thought that he was gullible, but he preferred to think of himself as possessing a resilient optimism. In a world reigned by cynicism and apathy, even one person’s unshakeable conviction that mankind is inherently good should be enough to make a difference, no matter how small. Young Steve had believed, fiercely, unwaveringly. Where was that kid?  
Adult Steve, the one they are all saddled with now, could use some of that fervor; that wild, earnest, innocent hope. He needs it, because he is afraid that he will otherwise be dragged into that chasm of indifference he has never feared before. He wants to look at his reflection and see less harsh lines etched deep into his forehead, less surrender in his eyes, less of that “was that it, what was it all for?”-grimness dragging at the ends of his lips. He wants to look at his friends and say “we’ll be fine. We’ll figure it out. We’ll make a plan, and we’ll be alright.”, and he wants to really mean it. He wants to convince them, but more importantly, he wants to convince himself.

He looks into the gilded mirror and sees a stranger staring back at him. It isn’t Steve Rogers with his soft, curious eyes. It isn’t Captain America, either, the man who inspires courage in others without even trying. No, this foreigner is damaged and hurting, and for the first time in his long, long life, Steve feels old. _Ancient_. He also feels like he doesn’t want to take care of people. No, that’s not right, that could never be right. But he wants to take care of himself first, and that’s new. That’s not the Steve he knows. But then again, that Steve has never experienced this kind of trauma. His thoughts unwittingly slip to Tony. Before everything that happened with Bucky and – no, he can’t think about that, he needs to get back on track. He is pretty sure that his heart cannot fracture into smaller pieces than it already has, but he would rather not risk it. Let’s talk about “after” instead. After everything that happened with the Mandarin, Potts made Tony see a psychiatrist. Tony had refused at first, claiming that he just needed to throw himself into his work, and that he didn’t want some doctor prodding around inside his mind.

But he went, because though it might not help, it couldn’t really hurt, either. He was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Steve had been curious as to what that meant. The term PTSD wasn’t used in the medical field as a diagnosis until the late seventies. He knows because he Googled it. Pepper sat him down at one point and explained it to him, and he had realized that though he might be a good leader, he could also be uncompromising and unforgiving. He had tried being gentler with Tony after that. Had started praising him for the good things he did – and there were so many – and guiding him instead of berating him whenever he acted too rashly. It had worked well. Their relationship had improved significantly, to a point where Steve had finally been able to acknowledge that there could be more, that they could have so much more, make so many happy memories together, if they just opened themselves up to it. And they had; cautiously they had reached out and met in the middle, and from their connected hands and hearts a sapling love had started to bloom. Then a whole lot of _everything_ had gotten in their way, and they had let it. Their love had been too new, too delicate, to stand against the obstacles. They had been too dumb and blind to see that the world was wide enough for both of them. Steve knows what he would say to Tony if he was here. He would take him in his arms, kiss that little spot below his left ear that made – _makes_ , Steve corrects himself; he refuses to think of Tony as being dead – him go soft and open, and tell him all of the things that he has inside; the things he never got around to saying.

 _I love you. Forgive me. I don’t know what I’ll do without you. I’ve missed you so much. Let me fix this, we can fix this together_. _Please don’t leave again_. It might not be too late, but the odds are stacked against them, and Steve has never had good experience with odds. Knowing the universe’s flair for dramatics Tony might just be stranded on another planet. With normal people that notion would be a cause for alarm, but Tony isn’t exactly normal people. He has been to space before, and though he crashed back on Earth pretty hard, he (according to himself) “took it like a champ and ate shawarma after”. Tony is resourceful, but more importantly he’s resilient.  He can adapt to almost every condition, as long as he still has his clever hands and bright, beautiful brain. No matter what Tony might think of himself, Steve knows that the only thing Tony really needs is Tony. Steve misses him. He yearns for Tony’s keen eyes, the sweet curve of his smile, the flex of his strong, meticulous fingers as he fiddles with something or other, and his rough, soothing voice.  He would give anything, he would give up his own life, for Tony to be here right now, safe and alive.

There’s a knock on the door to his suite, the one Shuri so graciously settled him in last night, in the west wing of the Wakandan royal palace. Whoever is on the other side will be expecting him to be the best version of himself. It’s time to be Steve Rogers again, or, if he cannot be that, then Captain America. It’s time to stop being _this_. He will be hopeful and wide-eyed and brave, not bitter and jaded and heartbroken. But where will he even start? “Come in.” he calls, then coughs a little to clear out his dry throat, “it’s open.”  
The door slides open on silent hinges, revealing the cautious figure of James Rhodes. _Rhodey_ , Steve reminds himself, _Tony calls him Rhodey_. _Should I call him Rhodey, too?_ They have never really been alone like this before.

Rhodey doesn’t look at him. His eyes are fastened to a spot at the wall behind Steve, the one colored a cheery yellow (like sunshine, like happiness, like _life_ ), and he looks like he would much rather chew on glass than be in Steve’s presence. He hides his discomfort well, though. The only thing that gives him away is the hint of unease flickering in his eyes, there and then gone, and Steve only notices it because his attention is so singularly focused on his face.  Steve wonders what the other man sees when he looks at him. Does he see Steve Rogers or Captain America? Maybe he sees someone entirely different, perhaps the person who caused Tony, his friend, so much pain. He once told Steve that he never had had any interest in being a superhero. All he ever wanted was to keep Tony safe. And so maybe he sees betrayal, distrust, something worse. Steve feels the guilt like a black tumor in the pit of his stomach, like a coiled up and ugly beast, ready to strike anyone who dares move in too close. He tastes it in his mouth. It tastes rancid; it tastes like being too little, too late. Last night, while they were cleaning up the remnants of their lost battle, he felt detached from himself, the sound of his heartbeat miles and miles away. Perhaps it was the shock dulling his senses. Now, however, reality is staring at him, cold and harsh. Furious.  
His voice sounds grating to his own ear, “hello Rhodey.”  
“I prefer Rhodes. Or James.” Rhodes says, shifting his focus back to Steve. There is a distant look on his face, like he is trying to figure something out. Like he is measuring Steve, subjecting him to some kind of test that he already knows that Steve will fail. For some reason Steve really wishes he still had his shield. Not the smart collapsible one, no, he wants his colorful, old-school shield back. And he wants the garish, ridiculous suit that went with it. He has had a hard time thinking himself the patriot lately, but wearing that suit he at least had a general idea of what he stood for. Now he doesn’t even have that.

“Okay.” he says, a little helpless, because he doesn’t know what else to do. He is unaccustomed to being anything but well-liked. He actually thought him and Rhodes were some sort of friends, in spite of everything. That must have been back when Rhodes had still been wholly confident that Tony was fine. If there is one person more who puts more faith in Tony’s capacity for perseverance than Steve does, it’s Rhodes. But even a mind as brilliant as Tony’s must come up short when faced with an elaborate piece of magic outerwear that can extinguish half of everything sentient in the entire universe. What Steve cannot accept – what Rhodes undoubtedly cannot accept either – is that there is a 50/50 percent change that Tony is dead. Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, _corpse_. But how can Rhodes blame Steve for that? Steve fought just as hard against Thanos as Rhodes did – he has a myriad of cuts and bruises spattered across his body to show for it, as well as two cracked rips and a concussion. Doesn’t sound like much damage, but it’s heavy stuff for an enhanced super soldier such as himself.

He weighs his words carefully, “What can I do for you, James?”  
Rhodes’ mouth pulls down at the corners for a moment before he manages to school his expression into one of careful disinterest, “Natasha requested we all meet up for breakfast in the dining hall. I said I’d pass it on to you”  
He spins on his axis and is just about to leave when Steve clasps his hand on his shoulder, stopping him dead in his track. He doesn’t turn to meet his eyes, though, just stands completely still, every inch of his body vibrating with tension, like he’s an animal ready to bolt.  
“James” Steve says, his voice going up an octave in soft desperation, like he is pleading with him to, just, _listen_ , “we all lost. I mean, yesterday, we all lost someone. Bucky and Wanda, and Sam and - ”  
He clamps up, because the names of his fallen comrades is the last thing he wants to hear right now. He can almost feel the anxiety thrumming through James through the place where they are linked. The silence between them is deafening. It’s like it is pulling the air from Steve’s lungs, leaving only a suffocating terror in its’ wake.

James says, words low and soft, “we don't have to talk about this right now.”  
Steve feels a sudden urge to defend himself, which is ridiculous, because although he has done a lot of things wrong, _this_ (Tony maybe being gone for good, no, he can’t be, no - ) isn’t one of them, “It’s not my fault he’s – “  
“I never said it was”  
“Then why are you blaming me?“  
Rhodes tears free of Steve’s hold, recoils from him like he is something disgusting and he doesn’t want to be infected. He looks at Steve, finally _looks_ , and now Steve is the one who flinches, because the other man is looking at him in a way that is making Steve feel five inches tall. Accusation darkens his eyes and harshen his tone, even as he says, “I’m not”  
“You are” Steve say. He is trembling all over and he feels raw in a new and awful way, “I know you are, James – “  
“So what if I am!” Rhodes snaps, “how does it help? You both fucked up! If you and him had just fucking kissed and made up when you had the chance, then Tony would...”  
He stops to draw in a long, stuttering breath. His eyes shine as he barely manages to hold back his tears. His voice is shaking, but he doesn’t look away from Steve for one second, “then he would be here”.  
Steve stares at him, completely thrown. He has never seen this angry, resentful side of the man who he has always considered the calm water to Tony’s roaring flame. There is an inferno burning in his eyes, and it can only be contained for so long.  
“It doesn’t matter if he was here or somewhere else.” Steve says carefully, feeling the truth of his words like a knife through his heart, “there was no way to change the outcome of – “  
“But we would _know_ ” Rhodes hisses, and when Steve’s eyes flicker down briefly he sees that the other man’s fists are clenched and quivering with excess energy. “We would know what had happened to him, and that would be better than this uncertainty, this - this not knowing”  
He spits, his words like a slap to Steve’s face, like a hand around his throat, ”tell me, should I mourn him?”  
Steve stumbles back a few steps, eyes wide, chest hurting (turns out there is no limit as to how many times a heart can break), “Rhodes – “  
James shakes his head. His voice is cold as he says, “So yeah, I do blame you. He loved you, and you _destroyed_ him. And now we don’t even know if he’s dead or not. God, I hope you’re satisfied”  
He turns and leaves, and this time Steve makes no move to stop him. He just stands there, stunned, in the middle of this luxurious, sunlit room, and wishes he could be who he was before.


	3. Bruce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Bruce's chapter. I've been super into Bruce/Thor since watching Ragnarok, I just think they have the nicest dynamic. This little fluffy thing takes place the after breakfast the day after the battle and an hour or so after Steve's chapter. I hope to write a piece for each of the characters who are still alive post IW (so. depressing.), but they won't all be as long as this one, and not all of them E-rated.
> 
> Anyway, I'm really happy with Bruce's chapter, and I hope you'll be, too.
> 
> "Bruce feels bile rising in his throat as he slides down a wall, curling in on himself with his legs drawn to his chest and his arms wrapped around them. He is having trouble breathing, his lungs aren’t cooperating like they should, his slight frame is racked with tremors and his heart is thundering in his chest, how could they all be dead, how could they lose, it makes no sense, they are the heroes -  
> “Bruce?.” "

Breakfast is a tense affair, for lack of a better word. They are sitting around the table in oppressive silence, avoiding eye contact and poking disinterestedly at their food, which is delicious – fresh fruit and bread straight out of the oven – but somehow still turns to ash and cinders in Bruce’s mouth.  
He looks up; takes in the emotions on his friends’ faces (those who had been left of them, anyway). Nat is glaring at her plate like it is causing her personal offence, her hands clenched on the table top. There is a glassy sheen to her eyes, and that unsettles Bruce greatly. He has never seen his friend (the other thing they had had kinda fizzled out during the two years he spent as Hulk) looking so completely lost. He wants to reach out and take her hand, squeeze it, tell her without so many words _I’m here_. Nat possesses a fierce and admirable strength, but she is only human, and she shouldn’t be the second Atlas holding up the weight of the world all by herself. He can’t go to her, though, because Rhodey is seated between them.

His shoulders are almost up to his ears, and his posture is rigid as he hunches over the table. His eyes are shifting this way and that, much the same as Bruce’s, with the notable exception that he seems to be avoiding Steve like the plague. Steve, sitting directly across from him, seems to share the sentiment. Sam’s cheeks are flushed a righteous red where Steve’s are a tinted a sickly, waxen pallor. Curiosity chases away the lethargic sludge cluttering up Bruce’s mind for the briefest of moments, until the dullness returns full force and he is dragged back into a state of mind where nothing seems to matter. Not really. He supposes he should be asking the question, “what should we do now?”, but he just doesn’t have the energy for it. Half of the Earth’s – half of the _universe’s_ – population are dead, their atoms scattered in a shower of grey dust, and so he cannot engage in anything, least of all the reason for Steve and James’ petty squabble.

Unsurprisingly, Thor is the first one to speak. His booming voice, even lowered to a level that is barely above a whisper, makes them all jump in their seats.  
“Where is Shuri?” he asks.  
“The queen is in her lab” Okoye replies.  
“Why?” James butts in, “shouldn’t she be – “  
His mouth clamps shut, but it’s too late. The chief of the royal guard turns her head to look at him, eyes hard, words like shrapnel as they pierce the air, “half of her people have been _executed_. She is going through the personal records to find out who so we can give them the proper burial rites. I should think that task is a bit more urgent than eating breakfast.”  
She glares at him, and he glares back, and suddenly the atmosphere becomes an entirely different kind of uncomfortable. The air is charged, a powder keg of resentment about to explode, which Bruce knows a single match would be enough to ignite, and then there would be no going back. Their nerves are all frayed and they are all itching for a fight, even if they don’t want to admit it. Bruce feels the other guy stir restlessly, and he is familiar enough with that sensation to know that he has to remove himself from the situation, or things might turn really ugly really fast.  
He stands suddenly, the legs of his chair scraping jarringly against the floor, and says shakily, though he tries his best to seem courteous, “I’m done eating, thank you. I’m just – I’m going back to my room, I think I might take a nap”  
“Bruce” Nat says gently, eyebrows drawing together in concern, “you okay?”  
He shakes his head jerkily and takes two steps back, as if just a little physical distance would be enough to calm the beast in him.  
“We have to make plans” Steve says, and Bruce knows their leader doesn’t mean to be insensitive, but his hackles raise none the less, “I’d rather you – “  
“Oh, leave the man alone” Thor says, voice perfectly pleasant, but the tight coil of his muscles and the harsh look in his eyes promising danger. Warm gratitude blossoms in Bruce’s chest. Knowing that just one person has his back means a world to him, and the fact that that person is Thor, well, that means just a little bit more, for reasons Bruce is not yet ready to address.  
Steve stops arguing and Bruce inhales once, sharply, before nodding his goodbye and striding from the hall as briskly as possible without actually running.

Bruce walks in a haze until his mind is clear enough for him to stop and take in his surroundings. The palace is a maze and it doesn’t take long for him to realize that he is irrevocably lost. The quiet is disconcerting; it’s like the building is holding its’ breath, like it’s waiting for something. Perhaps for its missing inhabitants to come home. For its’ king to come home. Bruce feels bile rising in his throat as he slides down a wall, curling in on himself with his legs drawn to his chest and his arms wrapped around them. He is having trouble breathing, his lungs aren’t cooperating like they should, his slight frame is racked with tremors and his heart is thundering in his chest, _how could they all be dead, how could they lose, it makes no sense, they are the heroes_ -  
“Bruce?”  
Thor. It’s Thor. Thor is here, Thor must have the answers. Bruce looks up, and he can barely focus on the other man, his eyes swimming with tears, but he manages a choked out and frantic, “help me. Please.”  
The god promptly drops down to his knees next to Bruce and takes his hands, “breathe.”  
“I can’t, I _can’t._ ”  
“Does that “the sun is getting low” thing help?” Thor asks, frowning, as he paws at Bruce in that rough yet weirdly gentle way he has mastered down to a tee. In the end he gingerly folds his big hand around Bruce’s neck and pushes his head forward until it’s situated between his knees. He doesn’t let go, only carts his fingers gently through the small dark curls at the nape of Bruce’s neck, while he croons, lips close enough that Bruce feels small gusts of air against the shell of his ear and slope of his cheek, “sun’s getting low. It’s getting real low, and it’s good, it’s alright”  
“It’s not working” Bruce gasps, and though he’s pretty sure that the other guy is contained for now, he is working his way steadily towards a panic attack, and he can’t handle that, there’s not enough of him left to handle that, “I don’t, I –“  
He starts to cry and that only makes it worse, messy, hiccup-y sobs blocking his throat, whimpers spilling out of him, he can’t, he can’t, he –

“Bruce, look at me” Thor says, and, when Bruce doesn’t react, he cubs his jaw between his fingers and tips up his face so that their eyes meet. Thor’s eyes are soft with worry as he brushes a thumb lightly over the curve of Bruce’s cheekbone. Bruce’s breathing is coming in shallow gulps and his heart is beating up a samba in his chest and he wants all the bad things to go away, he wants Thor to take them away. That’s not fair to Thor, though. He has enough grief of his own to last a lifetime. Yet Bruce can’t stop crying, and his hands are clutching at the sleeves of Thor’s shirt, hiking the fabric up over the smooth, golden skin of his upper arms. He tumbles forward into the blonde, and Thor embraces him, pulls him close, almost all the way unto his lap. Then he just holds Bruce while he cries, whispers soothing little things against his hair, his hands strong and comforting on his back.

Bruce has no idea how long they have been sitting there, him pouring out his grief and Thor carrying him through it, in the middle of some random hallway, but when he comes back to himself he sees that the shadows have shifted around them with the sun’s movement across the sky. He looks away from the window and back to Thor, only to see that he is being watched intently by his fellow Avenger. It suddenly occurs to him that they are so, so close. He is pressed flush against Thor’s massive bulk, barred in by powerful, sinewy arms, and he feels safe – Thor was right, _the sun is getting low and it’s good, it’s alright_. The way Thor looks at him sends pleasant shivers down Bruce’s spine, and he feels heat creeping into his cheeks. He has no idea what to do with his body, so for some totally bizarre reason he wraps his arms around Thor’s neck. _Solid move, Banner_. Thor doesn’t seem to mind as he makes a pleased little noise in the back of his throat. It sounds like the soft rumble of thunder in a lightning storm. It calls to Bruce and it feels like shelter and tenderness. Bruce tightens his grip and smiles and there is something soft and sweet in him that he doesn’t know whether to fight or embrace. He settles on the latter.

“How are you feeling?” Thor asks gently. His large hands are a warm and solid weigh on Bruce’s waist, and the slight pressure is enough to make Bruce’s head light and feathery and perfect. He wonders whether Thor knows what he does to him.  
“I miss our space adventure.” he bursts out and Thor’s surprised little laugh is a thing of starlight – Bruce could bask in it forever, if the world would just allow it. It probably wouldn’t, but it’s nice to pretend.  
“I do, too.” Thor says. His fingers have started subconsciously carving lazy circles into Bruce’s hip as he speaks, which makes it rather hard for the younger man to concentrate on his words, what with his mind swirling with scattered, yearning thoughts, “it was much… quieter.”  
Bruce leans back and looks at him, mouth twisting with an amused smile, “we spent half of it being on the run, and the other half fighting your crazy half-sister. I’d hardly consider that “quiet”.”  
He thinks he knows where Thor is coming from, though. He doesn’t miss all the bloodshed or the fact that he “woke up” from his two year sabbatical as the Hulk only to find out that he had been cruelly violated by being used as a pawn in some twisted gameshow. But even so, in the midst of all the running and fighting, there had been moments where things had just been so _simple_. Peaceful, even.

“It was fun” he says, voice now barely above a whisper, because this moment, even if it takes place in a deserted, yet very public hallway, feels private. Intimate, somehow. Like he and Thor share a secret between them.  
“You flew a spaceship. A spaceship intended for orgies.” Thor says, bright-eyed, a lilting smile on his lips that Bruce longs to know better.  
He murmurs, “You got an eyepatch. I kinda miss it”  
Thor grumbles low in his throat. Bruce want to hear his name groaned in that deep baritone. He wants his name to be the only thing Thor can say; wants Thor to be so lost in pleasure that Bruce’s name is the only thing  he can think.  
“You threw yourself onto the Bifrost”  
“You made an entrance worthy of a Led Zeppelin soundtrack. It was amazing”  
“You won our fight.” Thor concedes.  
“I won our fight. Though that has never been up to debate.”  
Thor is dizzyingly close, and this, what they are doing right now, feels like the real victory. If Bruce can just push past the handbreadth of space between them, if he can just for once be bold, then something wonderful might happen. Everything around him is tragedy and terror, but then here is Thor, and Thor is so many good things. He is Bruce’s space adventure, and when Bruce finally, blindly tumbles forward and kisses him, it is more earnest, more _real_ than anything has ever had the right to be. It feels like a quest into a familiar unknown, like wanting and taking and having, like being wanted and taken and had. It feels like that something quiet he has always strived for but never found. Until now.

When Thor wraps his tree trunk arms around him and kisses him back everything falls into place. Thor is looking at him like he is magic, his face slack and full of wonder, and when Bruce rises to his knees he wastes no time in pulling him in, throwing the both of them helter-skelter into something wild and new and shining with potential. The pressure of his lips against Bruce’s is surprisingly gentle as he shapes the scientist into a pliant, breathless jumble, and Bruce melts against him more than willingly and gasps into their shared air. Thor hoists him up by the thighs and turn them around so that he has Bruce leaning against the wall, the latter thrilled by the show of strength. Bruce’s head is free and airy and his hands are on Thor’s shoulder and his legs are folded on the enticing V of Thor’s back and his tongue is brushing against Thor’s, careful, until he opens his mouth and lets him in, lets in the some of the beauty the broken world still has to offer.

Thor takes and Bruce gives, and then it’s the other way around, Thor tilting his head into a different angle that makes Bruce cross-eyed behind closed eyelids, and it’s right, it’s perfect, it’s -  
“Who’s there - By Bast!” a voice pitched high in surprise bursts their little bubble. Bruce jumps against Thor, who draws away from his lips, a regretful look on his face, to turn his head towards the origin of the noise. A member of the Dora Milaje is standing in the middle of the hallway, having just rounded the corner, her slender, yet subtly muscled frame a dark contour against the stark light of the midday sun streaming through the window glass. She looks formidable, a true warrior. Her eyes are black as coal and her back is straight as she radiates power and control. Bruce goes hot in the face and he knows that he must look ridiculously debauched, but his head is pleasantly buzzed, and he can’t bring himself to care about potentially kiss-red lips or ruffled hair. Still, it’s not exactly polite behaviour they are exhibiting, and so he squirms against Thor until the blonde gets the message and carefully sets him back on his feet. He takes a respectful step back and turns towards the Dora Milaje, smiling almost sheepishly. The expression suits him, Bruce thinks. It makes him look younger.

“Apologies.” he says, swiftly righting his knocked askew breastplate, which is quickly mirrored by Bruce flattening the creases in his shirt.  
The woman waves her hand dismissively, a crocked smile softening her severe appearance, “don’t worry, I was just startled”. Her expression darkens, “I haven’t seen a lot of people this morning. I’m not used to the palace being empty like this. It makes me uncomfortable.”.  
Bruce knows very little of Wakandan culture, but seeing a member of the elite group of guards open, almost vulnerable, like this feels like a special moment, one that should not be taken for granted. He wishes he could see it under less regrettable circumstances. Then the moment is over and she puts up a more professional front. She asks kindly, “Can I assist you in any way? Otherwise I suggest that you leave these rooms. This section of the building is for silent contemplation and meditation.”.  
There is a brief spark of amusement in her eyes, “which doesn’t seem to suit your current activity. Unless of course the US and Asgard has a different definition of “contemplation” than we do here.”  
“No, no.” Bruce says quickly, “we’ll go.”  
“Good.” she says and turns on the spot, making her way briskly down the hallway and leaving them to their lonesome once more. Bruce groans, hiding his face in his hands, “Christ.”  
Thor’s quiet chuckle is a comfort, as is his touch as he gently tugs Bruce closer by the wrist, “Come here, Strongest Avenger. I’m not halfway done with you.”

Bruce smiles and allows himself to be kissed. Thor’s lips taste like sunshine and opportunities and forgetting the bad things, if only for a little while. Their mouths move together slowly, lazily, and Bruce grabs his friend by the neck, cradling the back of his head, fingers finding solace in the golden crown of his hair. He teaseskiss after eager kiss from Thor and he smiles at the sweet mix of a laugh and a sigh dropping from the tip of Thor’s tongue. Bruce rises on his toes and presses his lips to Thor’s temple. He murmurs into his hairline, heart beating quickly in his chest (he has never felt so alive), “want to go contemplate somewhere else?”  
He doesn’t know where his courage comes from. Maybe he needed a near-death experience to get his priorities straight. Well, better late than never. It could very easily have been never, so this is so much better than nothing. Thor’s exhales serenely and he goes loose beneath Bruce’s touch to his chest, only holding himself up by a hand to the wall. He says, “Please.”  
The world is quiet here.


	4. Thor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor's chapter. Thor is one of my all time favorite MCU characters, and I hope that I have done him and his relationship with Bruce justice. I felt a lot of stuff while writing this chapter, in a way I haven't in a long time, and I guess that's good. I love writing, and I think that shines through. Enjoy.
> 
> "Thor tightens his embrace around the younger man, and he finds the courage to confess something to Bruce he has only just accepted himself, “I don’t know if I can be who I was. I feel like that person died with them. I don’t know who to be now. I’m lost.” "

Love is dangerous. It is the sweetest thing, and yet it can cause the biggest sorrow. Love is terrifying, it’s blissful, it’s scorching, it burns bright, it destroys. It’s pain and it’s poetry. Thor has always loved freely, and has always suffered for it. He has promised himself many, many times that he would be more careful with his heart. He promised it when his parents died. He promised it when Loki betrayed him the first time, and the second time, and the third time, and then again when Loki sacrificed himself for him. He promised it when his people were slain and he was standing by, powerless.

He has always considered himself an honourable man, a trustworthy one, but this is a promise he has never been able to keep. Turns out it’s easier said than done to stop loving someone. You might as well feel nothing at all. His mother once told him that his tender, forgiving heart was his greatest strength. He remembers thinking, after he lost his brother and he sat on the spaceship belonging to the jealous Star King (or whatever) and his destructive but well-meaning crew, that if being weak was what it took to avoid having said heart broken time and time again, then he would gladly pay that price. But now he’s glad that was never an option for him. Because here, in this moment, with Bruce moving against him, touching him, adoring him, he wants to feel everything. He wants to know and be known, to see and be seen. He wants to _love_ and not be afraid. He wants him and Bruce to be fearless, together.

He moans and throws his head back into the pillows when Bruce descends on his throat and licks, sucks, bites into the most sensitive parts of him. He bucks against him, creating the delicious friction that Thor craves. Thor’s mind is soft and desperate as he reaches for the man straddling his lap, pulling him into a kiss that mends, soothes, sanctifies. Calm settles further inside him, all the way into his bones, with every brush of Bruce’s hands against his raw, trembling body, with every reverent word Bruce breathes past his lips, and for the first time Thor wonders if Home can be a person.  
“Want you naked.” Bruce murmurs into his skin, carving sin into Thor’s soul through his pores, “I want to put my mouth on you, every inch of you – Thor…”  
Thor makes a sound he can’t properly categorize, a frantic little thing born of need and worship, and he rushes to put his hands on Bruce, because if he doesn’t he will surely fall apart. Bruce’s shock of dusky hair frames his face, beautiful and silky against his forehead. His eyes are dark with desire, the warm coffee bean brown of his irises swallowed up in pools of black, and his smile is sweet and free and hungry as he consumes Thor with the fervour of a starving man, stealing kisses from his mouths and shrouding him in stardust and wonder. He takes Thor apart with clever hands and puts him back together in a way that’s better, in a way Thor never knew could be better.

Bruce’s skin is slippery beneath his fingers, warm and glistening with sweat, but Thor manages to hold on. It’s important that he does; if not he might just drift away, float and be gone on a cloud of sensation, and it will turn out that Bruce is nothing but a devastating mirage, a shimmering product of Thor’s deepest, most fervent wishes. Somehow he manages to gather enough presence of mind to string together a few coherent words, though they are severely lacking in eloquence, “Bruce – ah, yes – please, I want –“  
He whimpers into Bruce’s mouth when the other man eases a hand beneath the wispy, silken fabric covering his upper body and rolls one of his nipples between two fingers, light, teasing, “I want you to touch me, I… I want you to take care of me. Please take care of me?” He has never felt this vulnerable. He has lowered his walls, and it’s a terrifying concept, but he knows that Bruce will not let him down.  
Bruce lifts his head, watches him. Thor squirms under the intensity of his gaze, cheeks flushed, lips falling open around breathy sighs.  
“Of course.” Bruce murmurs “Of course I will. You took care of me.”  
There is something in his eyes, a prayer for which no words exists, and when he bunches Thor’s shirt and tugs it over the expanse of the his chest with slightly shaking hands, Thor feels the gravity of it all settling deep inside him. His body flares to dazzling life with a quiet roar as Bruce lays him bare; his blood is a sparking, ferrous liquid, his veins are iron-forged, crackling with electricity, his core is lined with snapping, sparkling, brilliant light.

Bruce slips down the long, loose line of his body and takes him into his mouth, lips wrapping snugly around his cock, and Thor, well, Thor feels invincible, _is_ invincible. Lightning travels up and down the length of his arms, fingers to shoulders, and the scars in his minds are still there, but they hurt less now. He puts his hands carefully on Bruce’s face, feeling his friend’s jaw working beneath his skin. He whimpers and writhes and lets Bruce melt him down and build him back up so he can rise like a phoenix from the ashes, new and tender and untouched by all his grief and regret. For a vivid, horrifying second he worries that the searing energy coursing through him will somehow harm Bruce (this strong man, this breakable mortal). But his fire recognizes Bruce; it hums its’ happiness with sounds like tender little thunderclaps, gentle flashes of silver and cobalt braiding through his hair, fashioning themselves into a delicate crown around his head, threads of cleanest, brightest, fiercest lightning weaving together. He looks ethereal, so divine. His hands are on Thor’s hips and his eyelids flutter with delight when the head of Thor’s member brushes against the back of his throat. Thor jostles up onto his elbows – he wants to see properly – and, _oh_. Bruce is a vision, and the sight of him is enough to send a jolt of pleasure through Thor. Something tightens inside him, something good ( _Bruce, Bruce is so good to him_ ), and he tries to say a warning but the only thing that comes out of his mouth is a choked-out sob before he comes down Bruce’s throat, back arching, eyes consumed by glowing white.

He lies suspended in blissful serenity for a few moments, soothed by Bruce’s kittenish licks as he cleans away the come on the god’s stomach with his tongue. Thor opens his eyes and looks up into the ceiling. His soul is soft and open, his body, too, sweet inside, like honey, like the taste of Idunn’s apples.  
“Bruce.” he whispers, and he barely recognizes his own voice. He hears his own heartbeat in his ears, but it feels far away. So does the tears and the homesickness.  
“I’m here.” sounds Bruce’s soft voice, and soon he is wiggling his way close to Thor, carving a space for himself between Thor’s arm and chest (a place for himself in Thor’s heart), “you okay?”  
Thor says, “Yes. I’m fine.”  
“Talk to me?” Bruce asks. He puts his hand squarely on Thor’s chest, right above his heart, and Thor breathes a sigh of relief.  
“I miss them, Bruce. I miss my family, and my people.”  
A solemn timbre laces itself in between Bruce’s words, “I know. You have lost so much. I can’t even imagine what it must be like.”  
Thor tightens his embrace around the younger man, and he finds the courage to confess something to Bruce he has only just accepted himself, “I don’t know if I can be who I was. I feel like that person died with them. I don’t know who to be now. I’m lost.”  
Bruce rises to his elbows. The expression on his face is kind and unguarded. It’s a good look on him. He usually has so many worries inside that wonderful brain of his, that there’s no room for sunlit days. Thor traces a line with a fingertip from a spot just beneath his hairline, along the elegant slope of his cheekbone, and comes to rest against his sturdy jawline. He continues his path down Bruce’s throat, peculiarly fascinated with the steady cadence of the scientist’s pulse against his touch. Bruce swallows and his eyes go dark with arousal as he leans into the touch.  
He then swoops down, seeking out Thor’s lips, and whispers against them, “Maybe I can help, maybe we can find out, together”  
Thor nods. His head feels light and full of feathers.

Bruce smiles and then moves away, off of the bed, despite the little sound of protest from the other man, who is left by himself, wrapped in warm eiderdown and quilts dyed radiant red, gold and purple. The Wakandans have a special way with colours. They have a special way with everything; with life, with love, with smiles. Maybe, when everything is done being awful, Thor could see himself visiting for leisure rather than for the purpose of wreaking havoc.  
“What are you doing?” he asks, because he is genuinely curious. Bruce doesn’t answer, having disappeared into the in-suite bathroom, but he soon returns with a small container in his hand. He crawls onto the madras and sits between Thor’s legs, the blonde spreading them to make room for him.  
“Can I…” Bruce stops, pausing meaningfully, his hungry eyes roaming over Thor’s naked form. Thor grins; not in a mocking way, only slightly amused.  
He says, “Yes, you can.”  
“You sure?” Bruce asks, doubtfully.  
He has started running his hands up and down Thor’s thighs, and even those fleeting touches are enough for Thor’s desire to start furling and unfurling lazily in his gut. He isn’t sure what Bruce’s plan is for him, but this, this he can do. This he really, really wants to do.  
“You want to hear me say it?” he says mildly, lowering his voice to a quiet, deep rumble, and smiles when Bruce nods (this caring, generous man), “I want you. I want you to make love to me.”

“Oh” Bruce murmurs, eyes wide. Earthlings aren’t as free with their affection as Asgardians are, it occurs to Thor. He reaches up to pet Bruce’s curls, and says reassuringly, “Hook up? Have sex? Fuck? Tony has taught me a lot of synonyms for fornicating, the one more creative than the next.”  
That thankfully earns him a snorted laugh.  
Bruce says, “Please, never say “fornicate” again.”  
 He then starts divesting himself of his clothes. Thor stares at his movements, transfixed even though Bruce is undressing in a way that (probably) isn’t meant to be enticing. Bruce’s smooth skin is a warm hazel colour. His arms and legs and chest are toned and firm. His thick cock juts from a nest of coarse dark curls.  
Thor sounds breathless as he says, “you’re gorgeous.”  
 Bruce shakes head fondly, but he looks pleased, a lovely little flush rising in his cheeks. He uncorks the jar and pours a copious amount of liquid into the palm of his hand. He then asks, "you ready?"  
Thor nods shakily. He dare not say anything, afraid that his words will break into pieces should he try to speak. It’s strange; he is by no means inexperienced, he has taken sexual partners before, both men and women, but this, this is different. This is Bruce, and Thor thinks (knows) that he is in love, and love has got him helpless and stunned, has left him feeling more a man and more a god than he ever was before. Bruce makes him a person, makes him _someone_.

Thor calms his breathing, trying to find his centre, but his body still tenses inevitably with anticipation when he feels the cold pad of Bruce’s forefinger pressing against his entrance. Bruce has applied plenty of lube, but still Thor’s sphincter resists the intrusion. It’s been so long since he has been on the receiving end. Bruce’s forehead crinkles in a concerned little frown. He leans in close and kisses Thor gently, then whispers a request against his lips, “Try to relax for me. Inhale, exhale. Can you do that?”  
Inhale. Exhale. It works; slowly, it works. He opens up and Bruce’s finger slips inside him. When the other man starts to carefully wiggle the digit around, pushing further in, the burn starts to melt away, only to be traded for the first tentative flashes of pleasure. Thor gasps, his lips parting around a startled little moan, and as the finger is joined by a second, and then a third, something inside him, in his soul, his heart, his body, _shifts_ and he tumbles headfirst into something wild and starbright. Bruce hits that perfect spot and Thor almost bucks himself right off the bed, eyes wide with surprise, desire sending strong bolts of lightning racing up and down his spine, sparks crackling at his fingertips as he clings to Bruce and presses his forehead into the crock between his neck and shoulder, complete and utterly overwhelmed. Bruce groans, a small sound of discomfort, and Thor flinches, struggling to free himself so that he can look at his friend’s face, guilt a harsh, strangling chokehold around his lungs. He sometimes forgets to reign in his powers, and now he has hurt Bruce. He has hurt _Bruce_.

“I’m sorry” he cries out, deep voice cranked high in worry, swiftly running his hands along the firm lines of Bruce’s upper body, and then his face, searching for lacerations of any kinds. Thor couldn’t bear it if Bruce came to harm at his hands.  
“Are you alright? Please, I’m sorry, Bruce – “  
“Thor” Bruce says, and though he winces a little and his hair is a static chaos, his eyes sparkle, “It’s okay.”  
“But I – “  
“Sweetheart, yesterday I was stepped on, thrown, hit, kicked, you name it. I think I can handle a little bit of voltage”  
The movement of his hand start up again, easy flicks of Bruce’s wrist, and Thor’s doubts and fears fall away, and everything is need and warmth and perfect love as he clutches at Bruce’s arms, urging him on with little sighs drifting through the air like leaves on an autumn breeze. Bruce’s kisses taste sweet and his voice, muffled against Thor’s cheek, is rich and smooth as he whispers, “Tell me what you want”  
Thor’s ass clenches around the fingers buried deep, and he wants - no, _needs_ \- Bruce. He manages a shaky, “Inside, I want you inside me”  
“Okay” Bruce says reverently, looking at Thor like he’s magic, eyes pouring over him and snagging at every little detail, “just…”

He gently removes his fingers and Thor groans, loose muscles flexing at nothing, the emptiness he feels being almost unbearable after having been stretched open.  
He is then treated to the exquisite sight that is Bruce taking himself in hand and giving a few quick tugs until his breath comes rapidly and his cock is red and straining in his palm. Then he slicks himself up with the liquid still covering his hands and lines up against Thor. The kiss he presses to Thor’s mouth, the slow, dirty slide of their tongues, is obviously meant as a distraction from the pain as he pushes inside, breaching Thor, filling him up, and this is unbearable, too, but in such a good way.  
“Bruce” he whimpers, his body racked with shivers, as Bruce starts rocking against him. He drives in with shallow, rolling movements, every shove accompanied by a series of sweet little moans falling from Thor like a litany. Soon he bottoms out, sitting firmly inside Thor, his breathing ragged and scorching against Thor’s skin, his eyes half-closed and soft with pleasure. Thor is dazed at first, but then his fogged mind starts to clear and he lifts his legs from the madras in order to wrap himself around Bruce, gasping when the scientist angles him up and finds his prostate with a particular well-aimed thrust. And another. And another, and another, and – oh, God. Oh, every god in every pantheon in every universe.

His head is blessedly light, swimming with words like _perfect,_ like _beloved_ , like _life,_ like _Bruce_ , like _Bruce_ , like _Bruce_ …  
“God, you feel so good, Thor…” Bruce breathes into his ear. His fingers flutter helplessly in Thor’s hair, tugging at fair strands, and the heat in his eyes – turns out it’s not only the Hulk that’s raging fire – sets Thor’s soul aflame.  
“You’re lovely” Bruce says, eyes bright and sincere, as he brushes his thumb along the shell of Thor’s ear, “you’re celestial”  
Thor gasps and arches his back, bucking against the younger man, his cheeks hot, his head blessedly quiet.  
“I…” he says, some self-destructive part of him rearing its’ ugly head in protest at Bruce’s praise, “that’s not – “  
“It is” Bruce snaps, fiercely. He lets go of Thor’s hair and entwines their fingers, before pressing their connected hands into the madras. His hold is firm and strong, much like the man himself, and Thor feels so much.  
“I know who you are” continues Bruce, punctuating his words with powerful snaps of his hips, making the god beneath him see stars and cry out in pleasure, “you are beautiful”  
Thor grinds out, meeting Bruce halfway, his body crackling with electricity the colour of purest sapphire, “I’m bruised”  
“Those aren’t bruises” Bruce insists, “they’re more , like, party tattoos. Space party tattoos”. He runs his hand reverently down Thor’s chest, settling at the white, faded line of an ancient scar Thor obtained during some battle or other. He thumbs at it so, so gently, like it still hurts. It doesn’t, hasn’t for a while, but tears still springs to Thor’s eyes at the tenderness of that little touch. _What a strange thing to say_.

 Bruce’s hips stutter against him, his rhythm faltering and turning erratic. He’s close. Thor’s close, too. The air between their mouths is heavy and warm, and Bruce is soft and kind and _his_. Elation fills Thor’s chest and he feels light and dizzy and perfectly fine. There’s nothing like this.  
“You’re kind, Thor. You’re selfless and generous” Bruce says, his voice a line of shimmering light and salvation, “you’re a good man”  
“Bruce” he whines, begs without words for anything, for everything Bruce is willing to give him.  
“I’ve got you, Sweetheart” Bruce whispers, his lips forming the words against Thor’s neck, as he takes his friend in hand, “I’m with you.”  
That does it. For some reason those three little words are what it takes to send Thor tumbling the edge, spilling his release between their stomachs with a long, soft whine. His eyes fall shut as he basks in the radiance of the moment, spent and happy. Then Bruce gives a few aborted thrusts and comes into Thor’s waiting body, his mouth open around a blissed out little sound, arms wrapped tightly around Thor’s neck. They fall into each other, a messy pile of sweat-glistening skin and felicity. Thor’s arms find their way around Bruce’s waist. He tugs him close, and in that very moment, as he presses a kiss to the top of Bruce’s head, he makes a new promise, one he finally thinks – knows – that he can keep; _I will always be yours._

Bruce is the first one to catch his breath. He rolls off of Thor, his cum smearing against Thor’s thigh as he pulls out, leaving Thor’s hole fluttering around nothing. He flops down next to Thor and opens his arm, beckoning the other man closer with a wave of his hand. Thor moves into the circle of his arm and hums quietly in satisfaction when Bruce brushes their lips together. It’s barely a kiss, but it still has Thor’s heart trembling.  
“Bruce” he says, voice quiet in contemplation, as he pushes his nose into the crock between his friend’s neck and shoulder.  
“Yeah?”  
“You are all I have left.”  
He feels raw and open and terrified, but Bruce needs to know, because his words are the truest thing in the world, and they demand to be said. Demands to be felt.  
Bruce smiles, a sad, heartbreaking, _hopeful_ little smile, and his kisses taste like sunshine and conviction on Thor’s lips. He says, “You’re all I have left, too. You’re my space adventure.”  
Thor laughs shakily, “And you mine.”  
“I need you. Promise me you won’t leave.” Bruce says. He looks at Thor like he has hung the moon and stars in the night sky. His mouth sets in a determined line. He knows that Thor cannot possibly promise such a thing. Not really. Yesterday’s events stand as a vivid, devastating proof that they will never be safe. There will always be danger. Sometimes heroes loose. Sometimes the monsters win. But then again… Monsters are real, but they aren’t here now. Here, in their little pocket of life, there is only love and dreams. And so Thor will allow himself to pretend; “Then you must stay with me. I can’t be alone again.”  
“You won’t be. Never.”  
“Never”

That will have to be enough.


End file.
